


Autopsy Report

by Adenil



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers - Ambiguous Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe-Coroner, M/M, NO DEATH
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-01
Updated: 2015-03-01
Packaged: 2018-03-15 19:00:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,896
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3458309
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Adenil/pseuds/Adenil
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The body is identified as Barton, Clinton Francis.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Autopsy Report

**Author's Note:**

> While back I wrote some not-so-meet-cutes. Check [them](http://adenil-umano.tumblr.com/post/110510636945/some-not-so-meet-cutes) out. This fic is inspired by this one:  
> "I’m the Igor-esque medical examiner hiding from the beautiful cops in my morgue doing an autopsy on you and oh my god you’re still alive."

The medical examiner clicked her pen decisively and gave Bruce an absent grin that should have felt disharmonious, given where they were standing in the morgue.

“That should be all I need, Dr. Banner,” she said.

He nodded and waved her away before turning to the body on the cold, metal table. He could hear the door shut behind her. Bruce reached up and positioned the microphone.

“Examination begins at…” He checked the time. “Oh-four-thirty-six.” He pulled up the chart she’d left and scanned it quickly. “Body identified as Barton, Clinton Francis. Next of kin one brother, but we haven’t located him yet. Identity not confirmed. Pronounced dead at oh-three-oh-six—must be a rush job—by Officer Rogers.”

Bruce set the chart down and snapped on a pair of gloves. He pushed his glasses up with his wrist and considered the body carefully for a moment.

He started with Barton, Clinton Francis’ nails. His fingers on his right hand and the palm of his left were rough with callouses. Bruce scraped them clean and bagged the dirt, making little comments as he went. Barton smelled of wax and sweat. Clothes went next into little baggies for the boys upstairs to look at.

Then Bruce picked up his scalpel and made a quick incision, narrating the whole way, and stopped to watch Barton bleed.

Wait.

“Bleed,” Bruce said stupidly. “That’s...that’s alive-blood.”

He lurched forward and shoved his fingers against Barton’s neck, but felt nothing even after frantic searching. Bruce shoved his other hand down to search for a pulse at Barton’s femoral artery.

Thready. Weak. Going at about one-quarter speed. A pulse.

“Oh my God,” Bruce said, and Barton sat up.

Barton stared at him for a second, and Bruce stared back. Then Barton let out an unholy screech and tumbled off the table. He clattered into Bruce’s tools and nearly fell, but came up with a handful of little scalpels.

“Whoa, whoa!” Bruce tried to raise his hands non-threateningly, only to realize he was still holding a scalpel of his own. He dropped it as Barton skittered across the room to hide in the corner. “It’s okay! I’m, um, a doctor!” He instantly wished that he sounded more confident.

“What the hell, man?” Barton brandished a scalpel at him. He was blinking wildly like he was trying to wake up.

“I’m a doctor,” Bruce tried again. “This is the...morgue.” Barton’s blinking turned incredulous. “You were quite, ah, quite dead.”

“Huh,” said Barton.

“Yeah,” said Bruce. He tangled his fingers together nervously.

Barton glanced around the room lightning-fast before looking down at himself. “I’m naked.”

“Yes,” said Bruce.

“Because. Autopsy.”

“Um, yeah.”

“Okay,” said Barton, and then his eyes rolled back and he slumped to one side in a gentle faint.

Bruce immediately panicked.

*

Bruce paced one, two, three steps to the right and performed a sharp pivot before pacing one, two, three steps to the left. He swung around again, pacing hectically and rubbing his hands together nervously at his waist.

A nearby nurse sent him another dirty glare. He smiled weakly at her.

Intellectually, Bruce knew that this was not his fault. No fewer than three people had checked Barton, Clinton Francis and proclaimed him dead. That didn’t stop him from feeling responsible. He continued pacing, worrying at his hands until he was startled out of his frantic thoughts by someone gently clearing their throat.

He spun around and relaxed at the sight of Dr. Stark. “News?” Bruce asked.

Stark arched an eyebrow at him. “We checked him out and he seems fine now. But, yeah, he was totally dead for a while there. Pretty much the neatest thing I’ve ever seen. I’m thinking of writing a paper. Want in?”

Bruce blinked at him. “A...paper?”

“I’ve got most of the title already. ‘Dead on Arrival’,” Stark said easily. “Colon: some unintelligible medical-sounding stuff.”

Bruce blinked again. “You might want to work on that.”

Stark laughed. “You figure it out and get back to me. Anyway,” he glanced down at his chart, already flipping through it. “You can see him now.”

Bruce froze, suddenly nervous. He scanned the hallway quickly, mind whirring. He should probably go in and apologize. Sorry for nearly autopsying you, and all that. Only, he felt stupid going in empty handed, but what could he get for someone he knew nothing about? All he knew was that Barton, Clinton Francis smelled like wax and had a brother.

And now he was taking too long. Stark had already wandered off. There was no time to find the gift shop. Maybe he could steal the flowers at the reception desk—no, the nurse was glaring at him. His heart thudded in his chest and he panicked.

*

Bruce plopped down the cellophane-wrapped tuna salad sandwich—purchased mere moments ago from a depressing vending machine—on the little swiveling table beside Barton’s bed. “Sorry I almost autopsied you.”

Barton glanced at the sandwich, then back at Bruce. He strangely didn’t seem to find the sandwich odd. “Nah, no problem. They explained what happened. Anyone would have done the same.”

“Still.” Bruce drummed his fingers together. “Please accept this, um…” He nudged the sandwich a little closer.

Barton smirked at the gesture, amusement rocketing over his features. “Thanks,” was all he said.

Bruce watched Barton eat the sandwich, trying not to feel mortified. He was clearly terrible at this, but it wasn’t like Hallmark made a ‘sorry I thought you were a corpse’ gift card. Actually, they probably did. He wondered for a moment what sort of picture they would have on the card. A tombstone?

“So,” Barton said, pausing in his munching to lick a stray fleck of tuna from his fingertips. “What’s your name?”

“Oh! Um, Bruce. Dr. Bruce Banner. I’m a doctor.” He winced.

Barton smirked. “Call me Clint.”

*

Bruce typed at his computer slowly and methodically. He’d never been very good at typing, but here in the cool morgue it wasn’t necessary for him to be. He could just click and clack and let the slow unspooling of lettering on the screen lull him into a sense of security.

“Nice place you got here, Doc.”

Bruce jumped and spun around, sending the tea mug he’d forgotten about flying off his desk to shatter on the floor. He sighed at the impact. He loved that mug. It was funeral-black and said, ‘What happens in the Morgue stays in the Morgue.’ He’d always found it funny, in a dark sort of way.

“Sorry, sorry,” he said. He wrenched himself out of his chair and tried to wave Clint away. “I’m sorry, I didn’t hear you come in. You, um, caught me by surprise.”

Clint smiled kindly at him and shrugged. “No big.” He had his hands in his pockets as he shuffled over to the shattered mug and started pushing the ceramic pieces into a little wet pile with one booted foot.

“No, let me.” Bruce waved him off again.

He grabbed a pile of paper towels from the sink and threw them haphazardly at the tea. He knelt down and mopped at it until it wasn’t a slipping hazard. After a moment, Bruce glanced up at where Cling was looming over him.

“...How did you get in here, anyway?” Bruce asked.

“I came back for my clothes,” Clint said, which wasn’t an answer. Bruce could forgive him because he immediately followed up with a gentle, cascading smile that pulled his handsome features into perfect alignment. “You’ve got my favorite t-shirt.”

Bruce nodded and stood. He threw the paper towels at the garbage can and missed. With a frown, he stooped over and deposited them correctly, ignoring Clint’s soft snickering in the background. Bruce cleared his throat, feeling the back of his neck grow warm with embarrassment.

“You should have gone to the front desk. You’re clothes are probably still in evidence.”

“Aw,” Clint said with a frown. “Can you help me get them back?”

Bruce probably should have declined. He had a lot of slow typing to do, and there was currently a body in the cooler that Chief Fury was getting apoplectic about. But instead, he found himself nodding.

“Sure. I’ll show you the way.”

They walked shoulder-to-shoulder. Clint was all loose-limbs and easy swagger. Bruce felt like he was wound tighter than his ball of rubberbands. He didn’t know what to do with his hands, so he wrung them together at his waist.

“Did you ever find out what happened?” Bruce asked after a moment.

Clint shook his head. “Nope. That cop—Rogers? He said the case is still open, but it’s not a huge priority because I’m not actually, you know. Dead.”

“Which is good,” Bruce hastened to add. His footsteps felt deafeningly loud as they walked down the tiled hallway. “Please try to stay this way.”

“I’ve been pretty good at it so far,” Clint said. “Except for that one time.”

They finally made it to evidence. Bruce gathered up all the paperwork for Clint. “So, I’ll.” He stopped, totally unsure of what to say next.

“See you around?” Clint said with a grin.

Bruce smiled back, relieved. “Hopefully not too soon.”

Clint laughed and waved him away. His forefinger of his right hand had a bandaid on it, Bruce noticed. “Thanks for the help, Doc.”

*

Six a.m., Saturday morning. His shift was blessedly over. As Bruce wandered out of the station he caught sight of a haggard, exhausted-looking Clint heading in.

“Oh,” Bruce said, because there was a reason he’d gone to mortuary school and it wasn’t for his stellar social skills.

Clint glanced up at him and his face broke into a smile. _Broke_ was the operative word. His exhaustion seemed to shatter right off his skin as he grinned, toothy and wild, at Bruce. All that was left were the dark circles under his eyes. “Hey, Doc. I was hoping to run into you.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, wanted to apologize for breaking your mug.” Clint shifted from foot to foot, suddenly looking uneasy. His smile took on an uncertain air. He held out a small package wrapped in newspaper. Bruce could see Sunday cartoons peaking out from behind blue painter’s tape.

Bruce accepted the gift and turned it over in his hands. He could already tell what it was just from how Clint had wrapped it. A new mug. He felt warm and fuzzy.

“Thank you,” he said. He unwrapped it right then while Clint hovered near him, buzzing with energy.

The mug was white, solid in his hands. It said, ‘Peace, Love, and Autopsies’ on it, complete with a little peace-sign, a heart, and a tiny dead stick figure. Bruce loved it immediately.

“I know it’s not the same as that other one,” Clint said, sounding embarrassed. “I sort of had to hunt around for it. They don’t make many death-themed mugs. Which, maybe that’s a good thing. I mean. Death mugs. Why would you—why would you do that?”

Bruce looked up at him. Clint’s gaze scattered all over his face, never quite meeting his eyes. Definitely embarrassed. “I was about to go for dinner—breakfast,” he corrected. “Care to join me?”

Clint feigned consideration. “Know any place with good coffee?”

“I’ll think of something.”

*

Good coffee and amazing hashbrowns, and Clint laughed as Bruce told him all the stupid medicine jokes he could remember from college.

*

“I just don’t know what to do about it.”

Rogers twisted his cap in his hands earnestly. Bruce thought that if anyone else had done that it would have been grounds for eye-rolling. But with Officer Rogers it was perfectly in character.

“Well. You can’t expect someone to change who they are over night. Or, ever.”

“But it’s dangerous,” Rogers pointed out. “I just don’t want him to get hurt.”

“Have you told him that? In those words?”

Rogers frowned. He crushed and uncrushed his cap. It was going to be replete with creases soon. “No,” he said after a moment.

Bruce sighed. He considered his mug carefully, tracing his thumb nail over the tiny printed heart. “Maybe you should. He can’t know you care unless you tell him.”

“...Bruce, is everything—”

“Hey, Doc, I—Oh, hey Rogers.” Clint paused just inside the doorway and clutched a paper bag spotted with grease to his chest.

Rogers snapped to attention. “Mr. Barton,” he said formally. “I’m afraid this is a restricted area.”

“Sure.” Clint still wandered the rest of the way in. Bruce noticed he had a bandaid on his nose today, and he frowned at the sight. “But I mean, I’ve already been in here before. Just pretend I’m still dead.”

Rogers winced. “Again, I’m sorry about what happened. If you’re here about your case, I’m afraid it’s still open.”

“I’m not.” Clint set the bag down in front of Bruce and grinned brilliantly at him. Bruce felt a little dazed. “Bruce, would you like some lunch?”

“Um.” Bruce looked at the bag, then Clint, then Rogers, then back to the bag. “Yes.” It came out sounding more like a question than he would have liked.

Rogers suddenly took a step towards the door. “I suppose if you’re a guest of Bruce it’s all right for you to be here. I’ve got a case, so I should be going.” He left before Bruce could form a response.

Clint watched him go and let out a little shiver. “For some reason every time I’m around him I get the urge to go volunteer at a cat shelter or something.”

“He has that effect on people.”

Clint yanked over Bruce’s standing stool, the only thing to sit on that wasn’t also possibly-tainted with dead people. “Hope you like fries,” Clint said.

Bruce loved fries. He especially loved fries when they got Clint licking salt off his fingertips absently, blue eyes bright as he laughed.

*

Clint had been in the circus.

“No, no, it’s true!” Clint laughed. He startled to tug at the neck of his t-shirt. “Here, watch.”

It was a regular occurrence, now, for Clint to show up near the middle of Bruce’s shift carrying tidings of dangerously greasy food. Bruce knew what food like that could do to people—he’d held their hearts in his hands, after all. But still, he couldn’t resist when Clint smirked at him in that way that made his own heart flutter in his chest, lopsided like a baby bird.

“Um,” Bruce said, then, “You need to be shirtless for this?”

Clint winked at him. There was a bandaid over his eyebrow today, and it waggled along with the motion. “C’mon, Doc. It’s nothing you haven’t seen before.”

Bruce blushed furiously, and the back of his neck grew hot, but before he could retort he got a face full of Clint’s shirt. By the time he’d yanked it off his head Clint was already doing a handstand.

Bruce blinked. Then he sat back to watch.

He was certain that Clint did not, actually, need to be shirtless for this. But he wasn’t going to complain as Clint slowly bent in half, curving his spine backwards until his ankles were by his ears, feet resting flat on the floor. He curled back up in one smooth motion, stomach muscles flexing to hold him steady as he stood. He threw his hands in the air and tipped to one side, spinning into a half-dozen cartwheels that Bruce was worried would send him crashing into one of the tables. But Clint avoided all of them easily before stopping in front of Bruce’s desk.

Clint reached out and gathered up Bruce’s empty mug, his rubberband ball, and stapler. “If I had a tightrope I’d show you that, too,” he said as he began tossing the items into the air. They tumbled over one another in a smooth arc, and Clint grinned at him like this was all an everyday occurrence.

Bruce was still distracted by Clint’s abs. “Un,” he managed.

Clint laughed. “Hey, toss me that tape dispenser.”

Bruce did. Clint juggled higher and higher, and Bruce found himself getting distracted by his flexing arms, too.

*

“Wax,” Bruce said, apropos of nothing, and then immediately the back of his neck grew hot and he tried to bury himself in his keyboard.

“Huh? Wax?”

Chief Fury probably hated him for it, but somewhere along the line Bruce had decided that it was okay for Clint to just hang out with him for the rest of his shift after lunch. He’d even started doing all the actual-autopsying at the beginning of his shift, saving the paperwork for later.

Bruce looked over his shoulder at where Clint was stacking scalpels. He smiled, even though that meant he’d have to disinfect them later. Then he frowned again because, oh yeah, he was a huge dork. “I, er, noticed you smelled like wax the...first time we met.” Clever, Banner. Not mentioning that he’d also noticed that subtle smell every time he’d gotten within a foot of Clint, which was happening a lot more often lately.

“Oh, sure,” Clint said with an easy shrug. “From my bow.”

“Your bow?” Bruce asked, bewildered.

Clint grinned. “Oh, Banner, are you in for a treat.”

*

Clint’s broad, sure hands ghosted up his ribs before gripping solidly and twisting him into a better position. Bruce could feel hands everywhere. On his shoulders, pressing down in a soothing stroke. His arms, twisting and gently encouraging. His elbows, bending them to ninety degrees. His hands, twisting his own fingers to tighten on the bow string.

Clint was practically plastered to his back, breath coming in hot puffs against Bruce’s already-warm neck. “Good,” he whispered, right into Bruce’s ear. “Now pull back.”

Bruce did, feeling awkward. His hands twitched, desperate to drop the bow and gather together to worry nervously at his waist. But he didn’t let them. He let Clint guide him back until his hand rested at the corner of his chin.

“Pull to this spot every time,” Clint told him. “And pretty soon you’ll never miss.”

Bruce took a slow breath, eyeing the target down the long, smooth length of the arrow.

“Don’t wait too long,” Clint whispered. “Or you’ll start to shake. Always take the shot the first second you’re ready.”

Bruce breathed out, counting one, two, three, and fired.

He missed widely, but that was okay. Clint’s hand was at the small of his back, already guiding him through his next shot.

*

Clint had texted him the morning with a frowny face and a message that he couldn’t come to lunch, so Bruce was already in a bad mood when one of his supposed-corpses began banging at the door to the cooler and Coulson, Phillip Jethro came tumbling out.

*

Bruce didn’t feel as bad about this one. At least he hadn’t started cutting into the guy. He ordered some flowers off the internet and had them sent to the hospital. He hoped carnations were truly right for any occasion.

Then he marched upstairs and perched on the edge of Officer Rogers’ desk, glaring down at the other man.

Rogers leaned back in his desk chair. “Doctor,” he said carefully.

“I’m quite tired of my bodies reanimating, Officer,” Bruce returned. “I know they’ve assigned you to the Coulson case now as well, and I’d like to know when I’ll be getting some peace and quiet in the morgue.”

“I don’t have an answer for you,” Rogers said. He looked chagrined. “But I am working on it.”

“In between donuts and your…” Bruce waved a hand to try and encompass a whole lot of things he knew he shouldn’t say out loud when other officers could be listening. “...Your work with the special victims unit?”

Rogers tensed. “Yes,” he said slowly. “In between...all that. Much like how I had to use white out on all the sketches of arrows on your last report.”

“Right.” Bruce stood and pushed away from the desk. “As long as we’re on the same page.” He had no idea what page they were on.

“We are.” Rogers didn’t seem like he knew what page that was, either.

“Good.” He started to take a step. “Great. Let me know how it goes.” The rest of his bravado faded fast, and he fled.

*

Dr. Stark sent him an email that was about five hundred words long, but only had two periods and three commas in it. As Bruce was trying to decipher it he got a text from Clint.

 _this is a mass text_   
_does ane1 kno where I am?_

Bruce stared at his phone for a prolonged moment. Then, he shut down his computer and began dialing.

*

“Are you in some kind of fight club?”

Bruce could barely breathe he was so angry. Angry that Hill, Maria Cobie had crawled out of his freezer that morning. Angry that he hadn’t seen Clint in three days. Angry that he was seeing Clint now, holed up in some biker bar covered in cuts and gashes.

“Doc!” Clint descended on him and drew him into a tight hug. “You found me!” He laughed, sounding giddy. Bruce hoped it was alcohol and not blood loss.

Bruce pushed him off. “Answer the question.”

“Aw, Bruce,” Clint began. He was interrupted as a morose-looking biker sidled up to him.

“Leaving so soon, kid?” He was wearing more leather than a dominatrix, but in a much less sexy way.

“Yeah, gotta go.” Clint patted the biker on his enormous shoulder. “He’s my ride.” He jerked his thumb at Bruce.

Bruce stared at his thumb. Even that had a cut on it. He turned on his heel and marched out the door.

Clint caught up with him as Bruce was fumbling with his keys, his hands shaking with rage. They jangled in his hands until he dropped them. He stared at the offending metal as it lay in the dirt.

“Bruce…”

“Who did this to you?”

He could hear Clint suck in a breath, but he didn’t turn to look at him. “I’m not in a fight club.”

“I should hope not.” Even to his own ears he sounded terrifying. His voice was so flat he could have dropped a Mentos in it and not gotten a reaction.

“So there was this dog,” Clint said.

Bruce waited for him to go on, but he didn’t. After a minute Bruce turned and stared at him. He could barely look at Clint without getting sick. There were cuts above his eyes, and a huge gash on his right bicep. His hands were riddled with them, like he’d fended off a knife attack. Bruce should know. He’d seen a lot of cut up hands exactly like that, and all those people had died from knife attacks. His stomach twisted in agony.

Clint seemed to register his distress. He took a step forward. “And, um. These guys were gonna hurt it. So I punched one in the face.” He held up his hand. His knuckles were purple and bruised. “But there were, like, twelve? Maybe more. At least twenty. So these thirty guys attack, ‘cause they’re pissed. That’s when the bikers showed up.”

“Bikers,” Bruce said flatly.

“Yeah.” Clint pointed back at the bar. “Only, at this point I was kind of unconscious. Forty guys, you know. I woke up here. They really like dogs.”

Bruce stared at him some more. He couldn’t tell if he was still angry, or just disbelieving. “There weren’t really forty guys, were there.”

Clint scrubbed at the back of his neck. “Maybe six?”

Bruce nodded and knelt to pick up his keys. “Get in the car.”

*

“That still doesn’t explain all the other cuts,” Bruce pointed out as he stitched up the gnarly gash on Clint’s arm.

Clint hissed in pain. “What other cuts?”

Bruce gave him a Look with a capital-L. Clint was sitting on his dining room table, absently poking at all Bruce’s medical supplies with his free hand. Clint sighed.

“Yeah, those. Sometimes it’s bow practice, but mostly, yeah. Other fights.”

For a moment, Bruce worked in silence stitching Clint’s cut. Five even stitches. He dabbed it with alcohol and Clint hissed again.

“I’m not going to ask you to stop,” Bruce said to the stitches on Clint’s arm. “I know that doesn’t work because, well.” He stopped again. He didn’t want Clint to know about all the fights he’d gotten into over the years. About how hypocritical he was being. The silence was oppressive. “But next time don’t just slap a bandaid on it and call it good. I’ll help you. Please, come to me for help.”

He looked up. Clint was giving him such an intense, searching look that his breath was immediately stolen. He felt lost in Clint’s blue, blue eyes.

Clint reached out and rested his fingertips on Bruce’s elbow. His right hand. Bruce imagined he could feel Clint’s callouses through his shirt. “I will, Doc.”

Bruce gulped. “I’ll hold you to that.”

*

By the time Romanoff, Natalia Alianova crawled out of his cooler, Bruce was officially done with this.

“What is going on!?” He threw his rubberband ball at the wall. It bounced and knocked over three trays before it stopped. Bruce stared at the offensive, colorful ball. “What’s going on,” he said again, softer.

“People are coming back to life,” Clint said with an easy shrug. “Sounds like we should celebrate.”

Bruce shook his head and started picking up his scattered tools. “The fact that they were dead in the first place means we shouldn’t.” He threw a forcep angrily at the tray. After a moment, Clint wandered over and knelt down to help him.

“Bruce, I’m sorry I don’t know.” Clint reached out and gathered up a lost spool of thread and Bruce’s curved stitching needle. “None of us do. We just remember—”

“Blue, I know.” Bruce huffed, annoyed. He crawled away to pick up stray tongue depressors.  They were everywhere, and now he had to throw them all away.

Bruce startled when he felt a hand on his shoulder. He dropped the tongue depressors. He could feel Clint at his side, warm and sure, and it relaxed him and frustrated him in equal parts. He stared at the wood on the floor.

“I’m just glad you’re alive,” he blurted out. He could feel Clint’s shock through their hesitant contact. “I just keep thinking that if we don’t know what, what put you here in the first place, who’s to say it won’t happen again? I’ll be here typing away and waiting for you and—” His voice broke. “And you won’t show up.”

Clint reached out with his other hand and twisted Bruce around until they could look each other in the eye. He looked like he was about to say something, but then he paused. He leaned in until their noses were almost touching and Bruce could practically taste the coffee on Clint’s breath. At some point, Bruce was certain his heart stopped. He’d be the next one on that cold examination table, dead from the shock of Clint about to kiss him.

There was a solid _thunk_ as the door swung open and Rogers said, “Oh! Sorry!”

They both looked up in time to see Rogers disappear through the door, shoulders hunched.

Spell broken, Clint grinned nervously at Bruce. “I think one of your scalpels ended up under the bench.” He crawled away, murmuring, “Dummy, dummy,” so quiet that Bruce almost didn’t catch it.

Bruce thumped himself in the chest to remind his heart to keep beating, and then went to clean up the rest of his tools.

*

Bruce could hit the target at least half the time now, which was astounding.

There was something almost meditative about archery. Only, better than meditation, because Bruce had never been that great at meditation. Sure, he’d done it when his therapist had insisted, but it had always felt more nerve-wracking than relaxing. He could never get past the thinking-about-things stage to the thinking-about-nothing stage. His mind would rev up and he’d be lost in his own nervousness.

He pulled back on the bow and breathed out. He aimed down the length of the arrow. The purple fletching brushed at the corner of his chin. He fired.

“Nice!” Clint said. He clapped once.

Bruce didn’t think so. He’d missed the center, though he had hit one of the outer rings. “If you say so,” he allowed.

“I do,” Clint insisted. “Wait here, I’ll go get them and we can set up another round.” He took off jogging down the course.

Even though Bruce’s target wasn’t far away, he still enjoyed the show as Clint ran and then bent ten times to pick up the stray arrows. Even if Clint regretted their almost-kiss, at least Bruce could still admire him from afar.

Or a-close, he thought as Clint crowded back into his space with a handful of arrows and an enormous smile. “Here, tip the bow up a little more. Nice.” He rested his hands on Bruce’s shoulders, then slid them down to his waist. “Your form is great. We just need consistency. Let me see you pull.”

Bruce obeyed. He aimed. Clint’s hand on his lower back was a like a brand. He could feel himself flushing. The back of his neck was probably an embarrassing red. He fired.

He still missed, but less so.

“Okay, again,” Clint said, and lead him through another round.

*

It was raining, of course, because that’s what happened when dramatic things occurred.

Only, nature couldn’t really seem to decide if it wanted to rain or just spit at them. Bruce gazed morosely out the window for a while before turning back to where Clint was napping on his couch.

His eyes automatically went to the latest injury—a little cut on the side of Clint’s neck. Bruce knew that if it had been two centimeters higher and one millimeter deeper, it would have nicked an artery. Bruce moved quietly to shut off the television and sat on the far edge of the couch to just watch him.

Before he could truly get settled, the phone rang. Bruce scrambled for it, but Clint was already awake and alert.

“Banner,” Bruce said, too annoyed for a hello.

“Doctor,” Rogers said on the other end of the line. “We’ve got our necromancer.”

Bruce listened for a moment, said goodbye, hung up and turned to Clint. Bruce blinked at him and said, “Huh.”

*

Bruce didn’t get drunk. You could ask anyone. They all should know; he’d certainly proclaimed it loudly enough between his sixth shot and his seventh.

Rogers was still detailing the capture of local mad-scientist-come-magician-wannabe Loki Laufeyson. Bruce had once been sure that he’d embellished the story, but now he sat enraptured as Rogers waved his hands and described all the cool things he’d said.

“So I said, ‘Weren’t expecting me, were you? I came out of the blue?’ He just rolled his eyes.”

“That’s hilarious,” Bruce said seriously. He turned to where Clint was propped up beside him. “Don’t you think?”

“Mmm,” Clint agreed. “‘Kay, but I never understood necromancer. Like someone’s romancing a neck.”

Bruce looked at him, then back to Rogers. “That’s hilarious, too.”

“‘M a genius,” Clint said. He listed sideways and landed on Bruce’s arm. He raised his glass without opening his eyes. “To the arrest of the year.”

“The decade!” Bruce corrected.

The three of them clinked glasses and drank.

Rogers was back to looking bashful and flustered, but before he could say anything he got a strange look on his face. He was gazing behind Bruce, so Bruce turned to look.

“What’s, who’s that?”

“That’s Bucky,” Rogers hissed. “Don’t look at him.”

“ _That’s_ Bucky?” Bruce did not look away, even as Bucky caught sight of their little soiree and began marching over. “That’s the guy! Rogers, you’re supposed to tell him stuff.”

“I know,” Rogers said miserably.

“So do it,” Clint said. He nuzzled a little deeper into Bruce’s neck. “He seems nice.” Bruce didn’t point out that Clint wasn’t even looking at him.

“Steve.” Bucky was finally upon them. “Got a sec?”

Rogers looked panicked for a moment before he steeled. “Yes?” It still came out sounding like a question.

“Let’s chat.”

Rogers stood, and the two of them wandered towards the back of the bar. Some dim and distant part of Bruce that was still intent on thinking wondered why they had to go to the bathrooms to talk, but most of Bruce was distracted when Clint looped his arm around Bruce’s waist.

“Hey, Doc,” Clint whispered in his ear. “Wanna get out of here?”

“We should wait for Rogers,” Bruce pointed out. Then his brain caught up with the situation and he wished he could take those words back.

“Nah,” said Clint.

“That’s a good argument. Let’s go.”

*

Bruce expected wild, passionate kissing and groping hands, but they were both pretty drunk. They managed to stumble back into Bruce’s apartment and collapse onto the couch in a tangle of limbs. They fell asleep to the three o’clock news.

*

“Hey,” Clint whispered to him. “Doc?”

Bruce awoke all at once. His head instantly made its displeasure known. He sat up and nearly threw up, but managed to get himself under control. It looked like Clint was holding a dozen glasses of water, and had sprouted extra hands, but Bruce blinked and managed to focus.

“Thanks,” he croaked. He took the water and drank it.

Clint sprawled on the couch and watched Bruce drink. “Figured it’d be pretty hard on you. You kept saying you never drink.”

“I don’t,” Bruce said. He stared at the bottom of the glass, wishing for more. “But catching your killer seemed like a good cause for celebration.”

“Thanks.” Clint reached out with one foot and jabbed Bruce in the hip with his toe. It was oddly endearing. “For, you know.”

Bruce smiled at him. “You’re welcome.”

He counted to six before Clint cracked. He surged upward and ended up tumbling into Bruce’s lap.

“This okay?” Clint managed to ask before Bruce grabbed his head and yanked him into a kiss, effectively shutting him up.

Clint still smelled like wax, and now a bit like stale alcohol, and kissing him was the best thing in the world. He kissed like he was starving for it, and if Bruce was honest he was kissing back that same way. He kissed Clint until he wasn’t sure he was breathing, then he pulled back to gather a lungful of air before kissing again. And again. Some more for good measure.

When he surfaced the next time, Bruce found that he had pressed Clint flat on the couch and was practically laying on top of him. Clint didn’t seem to mind. In fact, his arms were around Bruce’s waist and he was pulling Bruce flush against him.

“So, I had a thought,” Clint said. He sounded far too level-headed, and so Bruce resolved to fix that.

“What’s that?” Bruce managed between gasps.

Clint ran his hands slowly up Bruce’s back, making him shiver. “You got to see me naked already. It’s only fair for you to return the favor.”

“Is that so?” Bruce smiled down at him. “I have to say, I agree.” He kissed Clint again, soundly, and reveled in their shared joy.

Peace, love, and autopsies. All together in harmony.

 


End file.
